


Is That an Order?

by mellyb6



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Also Aramis is like the kindest minister in the history of ministers, Anal Fingering, Blowjobs, Established Relationship, First Minister Aramis, General du Vallon, Hints of Annamis, M/M, No Angst, Post S3, a dash of fluff, a lot of porn, a sprinkle of smut, all things considered, and Porthos the hottest strongest general that ever lived, but a little bit, handjobs, hints of Porthos x Elodie (or whatever their ship name is, porn without much plot, they use their tongues a lot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-09
Updated: 2017-04-09
Packaged: 2018-10-16 19:12:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,777
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10577724
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mellyb6/pseuds/mellyb6
Summary: Aramis visits Porthos on the war front as part of a royal mission. They have the night to themselves. They spend it catching up. And not just by talking, if you get my gist. Post S3





	

**Author's Note:**

> -It's my headcanon that even though I believe in Annamis and I'm happy Porthos found Elodie, it doesn't mean Portamis ended. So Elodie knows about the men's relationship. 
> 
> -I've forsaken (and yes, I'm using such word on purpose) making the boys talk in outdated language. Because if I really wanted to be accurate then they'd be speaking French. And can you imagine having to write porn in my first language? NOPE. Dreadful thought. Moving on. 
> 
> -This is my first Portamis smut set in the 17th century. I learned some interesting things researching this fic. I don't know what else to do with the expansive knowledge about homosexual relationships I know possess. 
> 
> Enjoy ;)

Porthos is sitting at a table which probably acts as a desk as well. A mess on it. Piles of papers and maps and candles. Empy plates and dirty glasses and melted wax. Spilled ink and musket balls. A mess in the room, too, Aramis realizes when he steps inside, letting himself in. An unmade bed, more like a dusty blanket thrown hastily on a mattress. Yet there's a mattress. And the room he stands in is in an actual building. With walls made of bricks. With windows and robust doors. With tapestries on the walls and shelves filled with books. Better than a tent on a field. Easier to work and plan future strategic actions.

 

It's a small mansion requisitioned for senior members of the French army and Porthos is the General in charge here so of course, he's been given the best room. With a great fireplace and embers still burning. There's wood sitting by it, waiting to be used to rekindle the fire. It may be July and summer, it's raining in the north. And it's cold.

 

Aramis is glad there's a fire in his room as well. That he didn't have to light it himself. Even on he front there are servants to tend to his needs. And guards because apparently a First Minister away on a royal mission attracts numerous death threats. Guards he's left at the door with instructions to go join the other soldiers because clearly, he's fit enough to defend himself and besides, with General du Vallon with him, no one would dare attack them. Not in a house so well protected.

 

Porthos raises his head at the intrusion, a frown on his face from what he was reading as Aramis treads towards him. His robes open now, not as well-groomed as they were when he first arrived in the morning. His sword is nowhere to be seen anymore. He runs his fingers along the edge of the desk, collects dust that he wipes on his trousers.

 

“Is the room to your liking?” Porthos asks roughly.

 

“It's fine.”

 

“It's nothing like what you're used to at the Louvres now but...”

 

“I've been used to worse. And my rooms aren't that _grand_.”

 

“Your bed has some fine draperies.”

 

“You should know about it.”

 

Porthos replies with a smirk, still holding on to the letter in his hand. Yes, he's seen Aramis' apartments in the Parisian palace. Because he has “apartments” now. With splendid windows and expensive linens and fantastic food. Even though Porthos would give the world for such luxury as a short respite from the war, he'd be uncomfortale living in it all the time. So may Aramis who grins back.

 

“It's better than sleeping in a tent,” Aramis adds. “Although I wouldn't have minded doing that again. For old time's sake.”

 

“And give the Queen a heart stroke?”

 

Aramis laughs out loud this time. There's much more privacy in an actual room than behind some light material out there in the field after all. It's a better argument than avoiding the Queen's wrath.

 

“Do you need help with that?” Aramis asks, pointing at the map. He's come here to deal with some negotiating but that's all political talk. So if he can help with something more concrete and immediate, he'll be happy to.

 

Except Porthos shakes his head, gathers the papers awkwardly.

 

“It can wait till tomorrow. It's not like they're going to attack during the night.”

 

He hopes. It's never happened before. Besides, the mansion is quite far from the frontlines. If it were him, he'd be out there with the men but he's a General, his role is more important than keeping watch. Whether he likes it or not. At least he has Aramis' company tonight. A year since he's been promoted, since they've both been and if Porthos makes the tally of all the days they've seen each other, he can barely reach a month. And that's not counting the number of times they've actually been alone.

 

“Good. Because I have a message from your wife that I couldn't deliver earlier.”

 

“Do you?”

 

Aramis nods, a flicker of mischief in his eyes and he smiles. It lights up his face in the candlelight as he circles the large table, drumming his fingers on the wood. Humming to reach Porthos who has pushed his chair away from the improvised desk and reclines in it. Hands on his thighs.

 

Aramis leans back against the table, right there in front of Porthos, studying his weary features. The shining dark eyes and the way his chest and his neck rumble when he laughs. Just before Aramis kisses him.

 

The sweetest, greatest reward at the end of a demanding day. Perfect and slow and familiar. The rub of a tongue in Porthos' mouth after so long and how Aramis' hand cups his cheek, rubbing his jaw.

 

“What's the message?” Porthos rasps when their lips are only brushing. He's breathing a little more easily now that they're doing what he's yearning for all day.

 

“ _That_ 's the message, my dear Porthos,” Aramis simply says, kissing Porthos' open mouth again.

 

He feels Porthos' hand on his clothes, tugging at the robes to pull Aramis closer. Until he's hovering over Porthos, melting into the kiss, holding on to Porthos' face with both hands. Crouching a bit, Porthos straining a little, too. But he can feel Aramis' warm skin underneath the incredibly pristine shirt with neat blue stitching and he can hear the low sighs in his mouth. The whole thing is soothing.

 

“I should add that Elodie didn't do that to me. She just _told_ me to do it.”

 

“A real chore, I'm sure.”

 

“You have _no_ idea. Your beard is itchy.”

 

Porthos snorts in Aramis' face at the complaint. Then he closes his eyes at the fingers trailing on his jaw, checking the state of his facial hair.

 

“You're lucky I love you, Porthos. Or else I couldn't kiss you like that. My face's going to be all red tomorrow.”

 

Nonsense, since most of his face is taken up by a beard as well, but Porthos humors him.

 

“Poor little Palace man now, are you? I bet you have someone who trims it for you,” he jokes and Aramis draws back, outraged.

 

The look in his eyes, the scowl, it makes Porthos laugh out loud. A booming, hearty sound which feels out of place, which feels like home and it makes Aramis' heart content. He's been longing for this banter ever since dismounting his horse.

 

“I wouldn't let anyone I don't trust near my face. I dismissed him.”

 

“And I don't have time for it. It's not like I've to impress anyone here. Beard's more menacing.”

 

“You _are_ impressive,” Aramis admits. It adds to the seduction. The bushy beard and the curly black hair. He continues his inspection, hand gliding down Porthos' neck to the top of his shirt and the ties keeping it close to his chest. “I'll fix it for you,” he suddenly decides. “To make you more handsome for the negotiators.”

 

“I _am_ handsome.”

 

“More, I said.”

 

“I don't care about the negogiators.”

 

“For me. Like old times. Or would you rather have me go back to my quarters?”

 

“Bastard,” Porthos mumbles. “You always get what you want.” Aramis hums with delight. “Don't cut my face.”

 

“When have I ever?”

 

Aramis looks behind his shoulder on his way to the fireplace, not taking offense for the insult. For these few minutes it feels like they are fresh Musketeer recruits once again. Back at the Garrison in small stuffy rooms and no money to spare. Simple soldiers involved in no complicated politics. Young and somewhat carefree.

 

Porthos watches as Aramis gathers some water in a pot then tidies the fire to bring more flames so he can put the water to warm there. All the while chatting about Paris. About d'Artagnan and the new Garrison. And Porthos' household and Elodie and the baby. And the food Aramis can try at the royal table. It seems so foreign to them yet it's somehow their lives -Aramis' life at least-.

 

Aramis discards his long-sleeved robes when the water is hot enough, placing them distractedly on Porthos' bed. Then he rolls up his shirtsleeves, rubs his hands as if he was going to perform an extraordinary task and elegantly sits on Porthos' lap.

 

“Much easier like that,” he explains. “Not that you mind, do you?” Porthos huffs, circles Aramis' waist with an arm to keep him safely there.

 

“Get on with it.”

 

“Is that an order, General?”

 

“Sure it is. Or I shove you to the floor.”

 

Porthos gives Aramis' thigh a playful squeeze, which makes him wiggle and almost drop the bowl of water. Before he scolds his features and starts his delicate work. With a sharp blade and water to soothe the skin. His breathing is in Porthos' face, so close yet focused and they can't risk talking. Aramis because he doesn't want to be distracted and Porthos because he doesn't want bloody cheeks.

 

Aramis is skilled, though. Always has been. Careful and patient and humming some old tavern tune after a while. Immersed in his task, tilting Porthos' chin to let him know he should move. Slightly. Not too much.

 

And it's intimate. To have Aramis so close after so long. To do something which isn't remotrely romantic or loving as their previous kissing. Only perhaps it is. A loving thing. Aramis is warm in Porthos' arms, solid on his lap, not going anywhere for now.

 

Scolding Porthos when he yawns quite unpredictably.

 

“Don't make me give you an unfortunate scar.”

 

“Sorry. 's been a long day.”

 

Aramis waits to see if more is coming and only puts the blade back to Porthos' cheek when he's fairly certain he won't cause a disaster.

 

“That's not the type of war I'm used to,” Porthos ponders as Aramis has paused to check his work.

 

“How so?”

 

“I hardly do any fighting myself.”

 

“But isn't it safer? I mean, I know all about the thrill of the fight, the danger, and I do miss it sometimes but I much prefer knowing you're leading the troops than I was when you were actually in the midst of the fighting. With nobody to watch your back.”

 

“Yeah, perhaps. But I feel like I haven't wielded a sword in ages.”

 

“You're wielding that great strategical mind of yours.”

 

“Right. But I still feel like I'm growing rusty.”

 

“That could easily be corrected.” Aramis reaches behind him for some cloth to dry Porthos' face with so he can admire his finished job. “There. You're all magnificent. Not that you weren't before but more.”

 

“Thanks.”

 

Aramis gives Porthos a kiss for his good behavior and the hand which was on his thigh now moves a bit, rubbing the trousers since it doesn't matter anymore if Aramis doesn't stay still. Which he doesn't, holding out a mirror for Porthos to assess the quality of his new beard. Porthos grunts his approval.

 

“If you're good, I might let you do my hair, too,” he teases.

 

“Who am I? A barber?” But Aramis would do it willingly. “Tell you what: I'll do it if you win our sparring contest.”

 

“What contest?”

 

“The one we're having in the morning. Since we hardly get to do it these days.”

 

“We're at war, Aramis,” Porthos feels the need to remind his friend. Even though the idea is appealing and his fingers itch to use his sword. It's too useless when it's only an ornament for his uniform.

 

“Exactly. In such crucial times, we can't afford to have our best General _and_ the First Minister grow rusty when it comes to soldiering. It would be irresponsible.”

 

“Obviously.”

 

“Good.” Aramis claps his hands, done with his shaving job yet showing no sign of standing up. He's great where he is, perched on Porthos' lap, making up for lost time. One rough hand rubbing his thigh, his hip, his lower back. And his own hand on Porthos' shoulder. Wet. Enjoying being there just the two of them after so long. When it's dark out and everyone's more or less resting. “But don't hit me too hard and bruise me. Or cut me. Because I'll never hear the end of it.”

 

Aramis actually wobbles on Porthos' lap when his friend's entire body shakes with furious laughter. Such unexpected joy that even Aramis feels a small smile tug at his lips. At least he's entertaining.

 

Porthos has never observed first hand the Queen being personally mad at Aramis for his antics or his lack of serious yet he knows how strong-willed she is. How frightening her cold looks and words can be if she wants to. He can make no promises, though and Aramis might have to face her fury and disbelief, he'll find a way to be forgiven.

 

“And where would be the fun in that? If sparring can't be dirty?”

 

It's a hushed whisper, promises for the next day, and their noses touch briefly. It's like this extremely important royal mission which could determine the future of the war against Spain has also turned into a holiday for the two of them and Porthos is more than ready to forget his duties for the night. For a few hours in the morning. All wrapped up in each other that they are.

 

“I thought you were tired,” Aramis mumbles against Porthos' lips as the hand on his hip is busy bunching up the material of his shirt to sneak against his bare stomach. Aramis can't help shuddering. He's been thinking about this for too long.

 

Porthos' tongue sweeps in his mouth, sucks Aramis' who shifts to face him better. He grips Porthos' shoulders firmly, relaxes at the hand splayed on his naked flesh. At the fingernails teasing his fancy trousers.

 

“Never too tired for you. Neither are you,” Porthos comments when his hand slides to Aramis' crotch not so casually and he can feel the heat rising from there. Diffusing under Aramis' clothes and his skin. All the way to the thumbs now brushing Porthos' smoother cheeks. Aramis bucks his hips at the caress, shifts again and adds pressure on Porthos' groin. He swallows a groan.

 

“Did Elodie tell you do that, too?”

 

“She said to kiss you and then to do anything that I thought appropriate to cheer you up because you've been all alone at the front. She also did that smug grin of hers that I'd think she stole from you if I hadn't witnessed it before.”

 

“I love her,” Porthos chuckles, picturing the scene effortlessly.

 

“She's great,” Aramis agrees. She truly is. The best. “No more talking about her when you're about to screw _me_.”

 

“Am I, now?”

 

“Absolutely.”

 

“Is that an order, Minister?”

 

“You don't need to be ordered for that.”

 

Porthos grips Aramis' shirt, gives his crotch one last squeeze before Aramis can move around and straddle him completely. Giving them better angles to kiss but also a much better position: hot groins rubbing through material, Aramis not keeping still, grinding a bit in the large chair.

 

Porthos did hope something like that would happen during Aramis' stay. They've always found time when _he_ was back in Paris, even for a couple of hours, but it's Aramis' first visit to Porthos at war and the front has never been associated with intimacy of such kind in Porthos' mind. Not if Aramis isn't involved. Which he is now.

 

“Besides,” Aramis continues, “I don't need anybody prompting me to want to ravish you. I've missed you. I've missed the taste of your skin.” He licks Porthos' neck. Sucks on the pulse point. “I've missed the feel of your hair between my fingers.” He runs his hands in the dence curls, making Porthos moan with pleasure because it's a relaxing gesture. Close to a massage. He craves more. “I've missed feeling those sturdy muscles against me.”

 

Porthos lets him gather his black shirt in both fists to pull it over his head. Revealing those specific muscles that Aramis loses no time touching. Exploring carefully to make sure there is no new scar that Porthos woud have tried to keep quiet about. Getting reacquainted with old ones, fading ones. Feeling the clench of Porthos' stomach at the slight, deliberately slow graze of his fingertips.

 

Aramis licks his lips, drops his head to Porthos' shoulder to suck on the enticing skin. Always inching lower. Porthos closes his eyes at the tongue flicking a nipple and he has no idea if it's because he hasn't been touched like that in weeks. If it's because he hasn't been touched by _Aramis_ in weeks, if it's because he's missed the quiet and dedicated attention, the love, but he's getting hard already. A gorgeous man grinding down on his crotch.

 

Beautiful, molten friction and Porthos' breath itches as Aramis looks up, lust in his eyes. Mouth on Porthos' chest, pink tongue darting to lick the dark skin. Aramis' hand reaches between them, lower on top of Porthos' trousers, playing with the buttons and the belt and a lone finger trails along the hardening length that Aramis can sense. He smirks. Gives Porthos' nipple one last suck before he climbs up to his mouth.

 

Aramis stands up a little, the hand solid on his back preventing him from losing his balance. He captures Porthos' lips in his, teeth clashing in the heat and the haste of the moment. The fire crackles on his left but he's more interested in the groans coming from Porthos. The way his skin reacts to the caresses. Coming alive.

 

“I think you've missed me, too,” Aramis taunts, licking Porthos' bottom lip, focusing on unbukling the heavy belt.

 

Porthos' chest heaves with each breath he takes. He can't believe the First Minister of France is taking his clothes off. That Aramis is doing it, yes, he can and he loves the thrill of knowing what will happen next, but that now it's a Minister doing it. It's wild. As wild as knowing Porthos himself is one of the highest ranking officers in the French army. Never in his craziest dreams. Yet here they are.

 

Aramis on his knees, the belt undone. His hands on Porthos' thighs as he kisses the hardening cock through the fabric of the trousers. Even like this, Porthos' skin reacts wonderfully to the touch. He jerks his hips against Aramis. Wishes he could be naked already. He _has_ missed Aramis. The dirty, playful spark in his eyes. Much better to have him there with him than to dream about their passion.

 

Aramis' tongue licks along the leather. It smells of sweat and dirt but underneath it's definitely Porthos who is enjoying it, his hand fisting the armrest, the other on Aramis' shoulder. Grabbing the shirt, grabbing the skin under it. It only prompts Aramis to pepper kisses over his crotch. A prelude of what he intends to do later.

 

“Those need to come off,” he decides, standing up abruptly, forcing Porthos to his feet.

 

Porthos totters, blood rushing to his head at the sudden move. So unlike him but it's Aramis and his brain is shutting down. And Aramis groping his groin isn't helping. Not that Porthos would dare complain. It's a sweet and delighting torture, fire coursing in his veins and he pulls Aramis flushed to his bare chest to kiss him. Sloppy tongues and Aramis moans at the hands cupping his ass. Bringing their cocks together. He's been thinking about doing this with Porthos so much he was already hard from the thoughts.

 

Like old times.

 

It's a matter of seconds for him to unbutton Porthos' leather trousers and a couple of others before he dips his hand in the breeches, cupping a hardening dick and stroking it quickly. Porthos swears in Aramis' mouth, bites his lip without meaning to and soothes the sting with another long kiss. Aramis massages Porthos' cock with long, thorough strokes, feeling the skin heat up and pulse in his palm. It hardens under his ministrations and Porthos' hips buck on their own when Aramis' thumb brushes the tip. A tease as he does it again, his tongue now licking Porthos' neck, hinting for sensitive, hard nipples.

 

It's a loss when Aramis withdraws to push Porthos' clothes to the floor where they puddle before he steps out of them. His cock massive and hard and inviting and Aramis licks his lips by reflex. He can't wait to get his mouth on it. His hand. Everything.

 

Porthos moans again, Aramis' fingers rough and steady on his cock as he steps closer. So close they're flushed and Porthos' hand can return to the other's ass. Caressing through the clothes, hooking with the belt and scratching his back lightly. His heart beats faster just because Aramis is stroking him and Porthos can feel Aramis' dick against his thigh. The outline of it in his clothes. Hard and pressed to him as he rocks his hips lightly.

 

“Did you lock the door?” Porthos mutters as he continues kissing the corner of Aramis' mouth. An open-mouthed kiss on his lips, then on his cheeks all the way to the corner of his eye and the crinkles shining there. Then back to the lush lips. They taste like wine and the meat they had for dinner.

 

“I didn't know there was a lock.”

 

“So no?”

 

“No.”

 

“Was that your grand plan?” Porthos asks, already trying to distance himself from Aramis but he won't relinquish his hold on Porthos' cock. Stroking langorously yet strongly. “For someone to simply barge in and find their General and their Minister in a compromising position?”

 

“You know I don't mind an audience,” Aramis whispers, a sough against Porthos' neck. The tip of a tongue touching the skin delicately. “Perhaps not that type of audience, though.”

 

Porthos snorts at the intentional silliness and the flash of amusement in Aramis' eyes throughout his explanation. The spark of desire that the words ignites even though a random soldier would put a damp in the entire mood, that's for sure. Then he keens as Aramis gives his cock a strong squeeze, fondles his balls a bit and hears the constricted sound coming from low in Porthos' throat.

 

“To be honest,” Aramis continues quietly, “I didn't plan on attacking you so rapidly.”

 

“Right,” Porthos chokes out, not believing him entirely. There's been electricity in the air whenever they would find themselves too close to one another during the day. He's still amazed they've managed to restrain themselves yet they have years of practice.

 

“But then your beard and you're just too you, Porthos and I never could resist you.”

 

“You're full of compliments tonight. But we should lock it.” They must. But Porthos is too engrossed in kissing and in his dick being jerked quite effectively. Aramis seems in no mood to stop his ministrations either. He's living for the comforting feel of Porthos' cock in his fist and all the sensations rippling through his body. He's hot. “I really don't want anybody walking on me screwing you.”

 

Aramis shivers at the thought. Both because it's a dreadful situation he doesn't want to happen _ever_ and also because the idea of Porthos screwing him is so ridiculously arousing that his cock twitches in his breeches, adoring the prospect as well.

 

He gives one slap to Porthos' ass and steps back. Hair tousled and cheeks flushed.

 

“Hurry with it then.”

 

Aramis watches hungrily as a naked Porthos strides around the table, heads for the door and bolts it close. There's nothing else that matters but what's happening in the room now. No war, no negotiations, nobody else but Porthos and him. His eyes are drawn to Porthos' cock when he turns around rapidly. How it stands out proud and begging to be worshipped again. Everything that Aramis desires.

 

“I'm impressed you haven't yet forgotten how to take your own clothes off,” Porthos can't help joking once more.

 

He stares at Aramis who is unlacing the cuffs of his shirt to ease it off his arms and over his head. Aramis shrugs it off, let's it land on the floor in front of the table and he's already working on his trousers by the time it touches the tiles.

 

“I could have someone taking my clothes off, you know. But I decided I was grown enough to do it myself. Or not old enough to require assistance. I'm not some royal prince who needs help every second of his life.”

 

“There was actually someone whose job would have been to take your clothes off?” Porthos asks in disbelief.

 

Royal life, or Palace life, is so foreign to him that it astonishes him. All these details he learns from Aramis. Details which bewilder Aramis, too, for that matter. He's growing used to it but from the outside, it must seem incredible. Porthos himself sometimes feels awkward adjusting to his new status in life. He loves it, guiding the troops and helping his country, yet he still struggles with how high he's risen in life.

 

“And to put them on, too, if I wanted.”

 

“Some poor man is jobless because of you then.”

 

“I'm sure they relocated him somewhere. Perhaps he's the one who polishes my boots.” Aramis winks.

 

“Shut your mouth.”

 

“Make me.”

 

Porthos is on him in an instant. Not such a long distance from the door to the desk but it feels like a rush of air. A storm coming at Aramis with all its expectation and desire and he's engulfed in it. In the tight embrace and the warm mouth on his. The hands on his helping with the buttons and shoving the trousers so hard to the floor. There's a respite as Aramis has to hop to kick off his boots, Porthos having taken his off the very moment he'd retired to his office earlier in the evening.

 

Then they're both gloriously naked, glistening scarred skin, strong bodies. Ruffled hair, abused lips, sparkling lusty eyes. Hard cocks brushing together, rubbing together as Porthos takes them both in his hand. It's like the mere touch sends sparks of burning fire behind his eyelids, straight down to his heart. Clogging his lungs and it's difficult to breathe around the rush of pleasure.

 

He strokes them in a harsh rhythm, Aramis' hand on his ass clutching and his mouth in Porthos' neck. Teeth nibbling once in a while so he can lick the skin clean and soothe it. His knees buckle when Porthos' thumb sweeps over his cockhead, spreading wetness and slicking their dicks with it. His hand kneads Porthos' ass, grabbing, fingernails digging in the skin. Gropping the hard, beautiful skin.

 

Aramis' back hits the side of the table after he's wobbled once more under the onslaught of pleasure triggered by Porthos.He groans, fights Porthos' tongue in his mouth which is taking advantage. Their kiss is turning more aggressive but Aramis likes it. The firm strokes on his cock and Porthos' hard legs on either side of his. Trapping him where he is. Making him lean back against the desk.

 

A candlestick topples under the weight and they still to make sure the candle wasn't burning. It's not. Aramis returns to assaulting Porthos' mouth. He grips his hip, bucks his whenever a more forceful stroke makes Porthos' cock rub so greatly against his he feels like he won't be able to last very long.

 

That'd be a shame.

 

“I didn't come all the way here for some handjob,” Aramis manages to say hoarsely. He loves the way his voice turns when he's aroused. When he's with Porthos. Porthos' breath itches: he likes it, too. “At least not just for that. I have much more in mind that I want to do with you, General.”

 

Porthos smirks, stills his hand on their dicks, feels his pulse with passion and he shudders from head to toe when Aramis sinks to his knees. Much better than some handjob. Definitely.

 

But Aramis doesn't aim straight for his cock, how ever appealing it is. He kisses Porthos' lower stomach, brushing his nose to the top of his thigh, his lips gliding from one to the other. Hairs tickle his lips that he kisses nonetheless, feeling the tremors rippling through Porthos. The kisses move lower on his thighs as Aramis nudges the legs apart more. On his inner thigh, the tongue licking carefully.

 

“Aramis....,” Porthos groans. The teasing in insufferable. He adores it, Aramis kissing every inch of his body, but there are special places where he desperately needs to be touched and kissed and those are ignored quite on purpose. Aramis smirks up, cushions his cheek on Porthos' leg and looks up.

 

“Yes?”

 

“Stop teasing. I think I've been waiting enough for you to skip the teasing.”

 

“I _am_ kissing you. Making sure every part of you is attended to.”

 

“Hurry up,” Porthos very nearly whines and it's a sound he never associates with himself unless Aramis is involved and driving him insane. Like he is doing right now. His cock can't take Aramis' ragged breath washing over it yet having no mouth wrapped around it.

 

“Is that an order, General?”

 

“Suck my dick.”

 

Aramis snorts, shuffles on his knees then finally lands a short kiss on Porthos' cockhead. Lips close enough to gather the moisture on the tip before he opens his mouth slowly and swallows more of Porthos' cock. As much as he can take. Porthos lets out a long, rough drawl and he fists his hand in Aramis' hair. Guiding him as he bobs his head. His tongue curls around Porthos' cock, slurping and suckling whenever he comes up to the cockhead. His mouth stretches around the wet hard skin, gives it long fast laps from the base down.

 

Quick lips on the tip, gathering heat which coils in Porthos' guts. Especially as Aramis looks up, gives him a very dirty look and peppers tiny kisses all around his cock. Then one on each of his balls and he gives them both one thorough sucking. It tickles and it's intense and Porthos can't see straight anymore. He needs the firm grip on the black curls to keep from stumbling.

 

Aramis moans around Porthos' cock at the pull on his hair urging him to move faster, which he gladly complies to. The sound reverbates on Porthos' dick, makes him tremble and harden in Aramis' mouth. More.

 

His tongue swirls fast, licks the cockhead once more and there's such fire spreading in Porthos' blood that even his legs buckle. Weak at the knees, transfixed by Aramis' mouth, the scorching heat of it. The wetness lashing out on his cock. The warm breaths washing on the skin when Aramis withdraws to inhale deeply. The musky scent, masculine and raw.

 

He kisses Porthos' thigh again, his beard scrubbing the sweating skin as he moves back up Porthos' stomach. Kissing each scar. Flicking a nipple, sucking on it, rolling the other between his fingers. Finding Porthos with his mouth parted and his eyes closed, overwhelmed by all the sensations. Groaning when Aramis kisses him, his tongue darting inside his mouth without hesitation. It rubs around Porthos', makes him taste his own salty scent and Porthos still doesn't relinquish his tight grip on Aramis' hair. It's a bit painful at times but Aramis won't make him stop. If anything, his moans urge Porthos to be rougher.

 

“Oil?” Porthos grunts, his cock feeling much too unattended now. Even with Aramis' fingers clutching his hip, his thumb rubbing the skin where his pubic hair grazes the top of his thigh. He's not in the mood for waiting much longer.

 

“You know me well.” Aramis smirks against his lips, tongue darting to trace the outline of Porthos' mouth.

 

“It's not like I'll have some with me. I've no one who'd require it.”

 

“I should hope so. My robes.”

 

Aramis tilts his head toward Porthos' bed, but the hand on his ass doesn't let him make the short trip to retrieve it. Porthos keeps on kneading his ass, Aramis flushed to him, their dicks crushed together and Porthos' is still damp from Aramis' ministrations. A fantastic sensation.

 

Porthos' fingers travel up and down Aramis' ass, hand splayed on the warm skin. Hinting closer with every pass and Aramis spreads his legs without thinking about it. He groans loudly at the single finger caressing his hole. A long, penetrating shiver runs along his spine and he anchors himself to Porthos' waist.

 

“Oil,” Porthos orders again and this time, he's the one taking a step back, not touching Aramis at all anymore.

 

A cruel absence that Aramis wants to repair as soon as he can. A couple of hasty strides and he's bending over the bed, rummaging in the pockets of the heavy clothes for what he wants. A small flask that he smuggled out of the Palace. Much better quality than what they are used to.

 

With a triumphant smile, he holds it up for Porthos to see, swirling. Only to be met with Porthos, much closer than anticipated. He's stridden after Aramis, eager for more action and with one gentle yet determined push, Aramis is sitting on the bed. Finding it surprisingly comfortable. The blanket is cold against his naked body.

 

“Nice. Much better than a campbed,” he decides, bracing himself on his hands, testing the fluffiness of the mattress, if it can be called so.

 

“Perks of being General. Do you remember what we used to sleep on?”

 

“Our capes you mean? And a rock for a pillow? Yes, I remember. Those things, I'm not sad we've forsaken.”

 

The bed sinks more under Porthos' weight. He hopes it will hold up to two heavy men who do not intend to just sleep on it. He kneels in front of Aramis, taking hold on the oil.

 

“Christ,” he curses once he's opened the flask and the smell is too overpowering to be ignored. “Did you snitch this from the Queen? It smells like....I don't know. Those flowers everywhere in spring.”

 

“No. They're for my baths.”

 

“Fancy shit you have.”

 

“I know. Perks of being the First Minister. Now I'll smell like a flower when you're done with me.”

 

Aramis clicks his tongue, feeling so silly he could actually burst out laughing. There really is nothing that matters to him right now than to be reacquainted with Porthos and having the time of his life. Life outside of the two of them is meaningless tonight.

 

“Shut up, idiot.”

 

Porthos acts on his order immediately, almost pouncing on Aramis, pinning him to the bed which creaks a bit under the weight. Aramis' leg comes to circle his hip, bringing Porthos' body to his, their chests rubbing. Their cocks. Their mouths. Porthos grinds against him, matches the pace of Aramis' hips bucking up.

 

It does smell like a field of wildflowers, enough to forget the dark room they are in and the rain pattering on the windowpanes. The fire crackling only a few paces away.

 

Aramis arches his back when Porthos adjusts and smoothes his hand over his thigh, tickling the skin all the way to his ass. Fingernails scratching a little, spreading oil. He groans, spreads the leg still on the bed impossibly wider, giving Porthos much better access to his ass.

 

There's a finger rubbing his hole, massaging the skin, breaching in slowly and Aramis curses out loudly. A cry which makes Porthos kiss him harder. To silence him. To force him to be quiet and just enjoy the caresses. He's missed the way Aramis' ass clenches around his finger, and the second he adds after a while. His thumb skims over the underside of Aramis' balls as he pushes deeper inside and Aramis' leg folded around his waist falls back to the bed. Aramis is squirming too much to keep in place. The bed is also showing signs of weakness.

 

And Porthos doesn't want to be careful with the furniture tonight. He's spent too many nights by himself thinking about what it'd be like to finally have Aramis in his arms again. Still. He'd really hate having to sleep on the cold floortiles if they were too rough.

 

He slows his fingers rubbing in Aramis' ass yet doesn't take them away. He loves the sweat gathering on Aramis' skin with the effort and the pleasure he's taking. The beads he collect with his tongue as he licks down to Aramis' chest. Porthos kisses the developing softness of Aramis' stomach. The one he adores, too. The belly and the muscles which are disappearing rather slowly yet they are. Because they're growing older and let's face it, a Minister doesn't do much physical exercise indeed. Porthos knows better than to tease Aramis about it, so he keeps the praises to himself.

 

Yet, he spends more time showering Aramis' stomach with tiny kisses. The beard scratching the skin only this time it draws none of the complaints Aramis uttered when he first kissed Porthos earlier.

 

Lost in the pressure on his ass, the way he pushes his body to meet Porthos' fingers, Aramis sucks in a breath and almost chokes on it when he feels Porthos' mouth on his cock. Blowing warm air on it before he sucks it. Aramis throws his head back on the thin pillow, hits some wood but the pain hardly registers. He doesn't know what he likes the most. What Porthos is doing to his ass or what he's doing to his dick. Big lips and a big tongue swirling around it. The open-mouthed kisses along the length of the hard cock and the way Porthos sucks the wet cockhead which pulses in his mouth.

 

Aramis is thrashing under Porthos, fisting the bedcover, one arm thrown over his face. He's biting his lip, fully aware that if he so much as glances at Porthos, he'll probably come. Too soon. So he doesn't dare look. Which only fuels his passion. To concentrate on the fingers massaging in his ass, going faster, rubbing over his hole when Porthos withdraws before pushing inside some more. To concentrate on the lips and the tongue and the scrape of Porthos' newly trimmed beard on his cock.

 

“On your feet,” Porthos suddenly orders, because really, he'd like to be able to fuck Aramis without having to worry about the state of his poor bed. It's an hindrance.

 

Aramis whines at the loss of both fingers and mouth on him. An actual, long, plaintive whine and he chases after Porthos who has already stood up, cock hard and ready for more.

 

“What are you doing? Come back here.”

 

“We're going to break the bed, Aramis.”

 

“Is that all?”

 

“That's a lot. Up.”

 

“And then you'll fuck me?” Aramis asks casually, his ass tender and his hand travelling to his cock to feel the skin where Porthos' lips were just seconds earlier. He pulls on it leisurely, looking straight at Porthos who shifts on his legs, can't fight grabbing his own cock.

 

“That's my intention. Get over here.”

 

“Is that an order?”

 

Porthos growls, yanks Aramis up after he's gotten a hold on his hand. Aramis would chuckle if it weren't for the way he's manhandled until he's stuck between Porthos and his desk. With a large swipe of his hand, Porthos clears the table of random papers and books that he pushes out of the way. Aramis smirks, hops on the table only for Porthos to shake his head. _That's more like it,_ Aramis thinks.

 

“Other way around?” Aramis asks and he's down on his feet before Porthos even opens his mouth or agrees with him.

 

“You're going to bend over that and I'm going to fuck you so hard you'll think of me all day tomorrow.”

 

Aramis stops short of saying he would have anyway. He's not in the mood for teasing anymore.

 

“And the days after,” he replies instead, bringing Porthos' head to his for a kiss.

 

Messy and sloppy and then he turns around. Presents his glistening back and ass to Porthos who swears, slaps Aramis' ass before he hurries to get the oil again. The wood from the desk is hard and somewhat cold. Not exactly comfortable yet what's coming is enough to endure such positons. Especially as Porthos nudges Aramis' feet apart. His hand skims over the nape of his neck. Down the curve of his lower back.

 

Porthos stretches over Aramis to reach his ear, a strong grip on his hip and his lips touch his ear. Whispering all the filthy things he intends to do to him. More than he's already done. Aramis shivers with anticipation, squirms for more friction. His painful dick rests against the side of the table until Porthos taps on his hip, makes Aramis push himself away from the desk so he can wrap his hand around Aramis' cock. Aramis fires a string of curses and bucks his hips. Then he practically cries out loud because there might have been only one stroke on his cock but Porthos has dropped to his knees behind him and his mouth is buried in his ass.

 

Licking quickly from his balls to his hole. Sucking on it, playing with fingers dripping from oil. Aramis struggles to grip his own cock and jerk it himself. He can't see a thing, can only listen to the slurping sounds and Porthos anchoring himself to his legs. Pushing his tongue inside of him and Aramis stops trying to be somewhat quiet. His heart drums in his chest and his lungs heave with all the tension being released from his body. The playful way in which Porthos stretches him open for far longer than Aramis would have anticipated.

 

“Now, my breath is going to taste like a flower,” Porthos mutters, coming back up. The sound he receives as an answer is in between a chuckle and a gasp. Aramis rests his forehead on his arm, breathes in and out.

 

“Sweet. A mighty and fearful General for sure.”

 

Porthos spits on the floor, empties some more oil on his slick cock that he coats thoroughly, his left hand still pinning Aramis to the table. His ass in the air because he's still stroking his cock. Slowly, delicately. A steady rhythm that Porthos can't quite see but which makes him more horny.

 

“You ready to take it all?” Porthos taunts, his dick already pressing against Aramis' ass. Aramis only moans, a guttural noise and he pushes his ass against the cockhead. Enough of an answer. “Just so you know,” he continues, very gently driving his dick in Aramis' tight ass, “it's gonna be fast and it's gonna be hard because it's been forever since I've been in your ass. Any complaint?”

 

“No!” Aramis keens, demanding more.

 

He groans when Porthos' cock is fully inside of him. Setting his skin on fire and he can't quite breathe around the sharp pain which dully diffuses in his bones. Aramis tightens his hold on his cock, jerks his hips back to match Porthos' thrusts and his own dick sometimes hits the side of the table. He tries to grab something to hold on to, settles for the opposide edge of the table and Porthos makes him see stars, blinding spots of white light behind his eyelids whenever he drives his cock inside his ass.

 

As rough as he promised. A few fast and powerful thrusts accompanied by slurred swearing before he slows down, letting Aramis' hot ass massage his cock and Porthos withdraws. Taunts Aramis with the cockhead resting on the swollen skin of his hole until Aramis has to beg for more. Which he gets immediately. Porthos's nails break the skin of Aramis' waist, digging in. Aramis' head bobs with every thurst which sends him forward.

 

“Jesus Christ!” Aramis blasphems like he only ever does when Porthos and him are so caught up in each other he forgets everything but the man who's pleasuring him.

 

Porthos' hand is gripping wild black curls, pulling on them and it sends shards of pain through Aramis' scalp. Welcome and triggering. He can't feel his legs anymore. He fondles his balls and strokes his cock vigorously, choking on his grunts and on the fantastic feeling of Porthos' dick filling him so completely and perfectly.

 

“Is that...what you call hard?” Aramis jabs, a choked sneer all he can muster.

 

Porthos stills entirely at the words, his cock so deep inside of Aramis he can feel the tremors in his body and the way they reverberates on his dick. He rolls his hips quietly, the grip on Aramis' hair stronger before he snarls in his ear and Aramis loses his hold on the table. His entire body slides against the desk under the strength of the jerky thursts and his cock rubs against the hard wood. Painfully at times. Porthos accompanies each aggressive thurst with a low grunt, his thighs slapping against the back of Aramis'.

 

Porthos hooks one of his legs on top of the table, finding another great angle to push in Aramis' ass and it make even Porthos gasp in the new position.

 

Aramis hisses from the force of the body and the cock pressing against and inside him. Faster and harder and only so ever slowing for a tantalizing calm roll of Porthos' hips. Rubbing in Aramis' ass even more when he does so. Then Aramis hisses again, in pain. Not because the desk seems to rumble underneath him and that papers are sent flying off to the rug. That books totter and threaten to land loudly on the floor as well. Because a bronze candelight has toppled on the desk, hitting him straight on the arm. The candle just extinguished but melted, still hot wax spills on his hand and his fingers contract.

 

“Ouch!” Aramis gasps, shaking his hand to dull the sting.

 

The hand on his hair vanishes until Porthos' arm comes across Aramis' chest, bringing him upright again. Flushed to Porthos' heaving and sweating chest. Porthos doesn't let go once his mouth is on Aramis' neck, whispering words of comfort.

 

“Sorry 'bout that.”

 

“I'm fine,” Aramis breathes out loudly, finding that the torture of Porthos not moving at all hurts more than the wax solidifying on his hand. He'll survive this. He's not likely to survive the stillness and Porthos' cock throbbing in his ass.

 

Porthos's hand rubs Aramis' chest, the hardened nipples and all the skin that he can reach. His mouth is on Aramis' once he's turned his head. Tongues clash together, lips suck and Porthos' thrusts inside of Aramis' mouth to match the rhythm of his dick in Aramis' ass. Thrusting again and Aramis pushes himself to meet Porthos. Never letting him move out of his ass at all.

 

Their skin is plastered together and they stick and Aramis grops until he can touch Porthos' ass and settle his hand there. Damp palm gripping the flesh, urging Porthos deeper and harder into him. Aramis groans in the kisses, doesn't aim straight and ends up kissing Porthos' beard instead of his mouth sometimes. But he doesn't care. Porthos' hand which was on his chest is now on his cock, stroking greatly. Pulling on the skin, skimming over the cockhead. Going as fast as they are rolling their hips together.

 

Aramis arches his back, grinds against Porthos, feels him so deeply. His dick and the muscles he's trying to hold on to. So much that he doesn't feel in pain any longer. He feels like he's about to combust instead. That the fire coiling in the pit of his stomach needs out. That his lungs are heaving so much that he must be suffocating. Gasping against Porthos' lips and the groans drowning all the outside noises.

 

Porthos' grip on Aramis' cock tightens with each passing stroke and they are so thorough that Aramis comes without any warning. Panting and moaning around Porthos' tongue. Coating Porthos' hand even though Porthos hardly slows down. He keeps on thursting in Aramis' ass while Aramis' body rides out his orgasm and when he stills a bit, shuddering, beads of sweat all over his shoulders that Porthos laps at, Porthos' hand returns to rubbing Aramis' chest.

 

He smears come on the warm, thudding skin, rolling nipples and sending new waves of pleasure in Aramis' bones. Aramis sighs, can't help closing his eyes. Bursting with desire and bucking his hips back into Porthos' dick. Urging him to come too. Because the beautiful sight of Aramis giving in and taking great pleasure in their embrace has always been pretty.

 

Porthos' left hand closes on Aramis' neck in the very final seconds when he feels like Aramis' ass is just too inviting and hot to resist anymore. His hand doesn't much choke Aramis who can still breathe, as difficult as it is after his orgasm. Pants and littles gasps and the added pressure feels so wonderful they should have done it before.

 

Porthos' forehead drops to Aramis' shoulder when he comes, spilling inside Aramis' ass, the buzz of their groans in his ears. His thursts have grown shallow and erratic and Aramis' ass clenches around him, trapping him inside. Aramis can feel Porthos' heart hammer against his back. He braces himself on the table, both hands sticking to it and Porthos half-collapses onto him. Breathing with his mouth open, warm air washing over Aramis' over-sensitive skin.

 

There's too much silence all of a sudden, only broken by the small, sweet kiss that Porthos drops on Aramis' shoulder before he pulls away. Just a little bit and Aramis whines at the loss of him close. Inside of him. Aramis turns around at once, wobbly on his legs, feeling like he hasn't been this fantastic in weeks. If not months. He blows on the curls which fall on his eyes, lets Porthos grab his injured hand to pick at the solid wax.

 

“I've missed you,” Porthos confesses when he's done and he's sure that Aramis won't suffer further damage from the fallen candlelight.

 

A simple, honest truth which rang in the atmosphere from the very first moment Aramis appeared in front of the mansion in the morning. It wraps around Aramis in the quiet of their intimacy, in the silent room and the emptiness of the corridors surrounding it. It's like being alone in the world while the world keeps on living without them. Tonight it can.

 

Aramis' finger on Porthos' chin brings his face closer for a calmer kiss. Closed mouths and lips brushing. Aramis wraps his arms around Porthos' neck. He can't quite speak yet.

 

“I think there's some left if you want to take one of your sumptuous baths,” Porthos ponders, shaking the flask of oil lightly. There's a faint splashing sound inside.

 

Aramis chuckles. Almost giggles. He feels spectacular.

 

“We're at war, Porthos,” Aramis reminds him, using words from earlier. He would definitely enjoy one, though, they are one of the few luxuries he's grown rather used to at the Palace. “I hardly think that'd be appropriate.”

 

“What wouldn't be appropriate is the First Minister of France showing up to crucial negotiations looking like a cheap whore,” Porthos smirks.

 

Aramis scowls, offended, but then again, there's come smeared on his chest, long streaks on his stomach. And come dripping from his ass, running along his thigh. He swats Porthos' hand nonetheless, twirls his moustache.

 

“There's nothing _cheap_ about me.”

 

“Right. You're like the height of courtesans. Smelling like....lilac.” Porthos makes a show of sniffing Aramis' hair, his nose rubbing the side of his jaw and he doesn't pull away after Aramis has tried to push against his chest. “You're here for a week. At least. I doubt you're going to resist so long before begging for a tub and hot water.”

 

They fall back into teasing easily. The banter effortless and really, if Aramis could stay longer he would. Minus the tedious meetings with the Spanish negotiators. By now, he's too tired from his orgasm and everything to even fight the jeers.

 

“I'll take a bath if you order me to.”

 

“Go take a bath,” Porthos replies without missing a bit.

 

“Come pour it for me.”

 

“Right. Nothing will be more discreet than a General stooping to being your servant. You brought some along. Ask those.”

 

Aramis glowers, recognizes that even if in the small bubble they created they can afford to throw caution out of the window, there are still so many people in the house and they need to be careful. Regardless of their respective stations in life.

 

“Come and join me, then.”

 

“I don't....”

 

“And that's an order, General.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> -This is coincidentally also an early birthday present to myself. I hope you enjoyed it as much as I did writing it! 
> 
> [My Tumblr](http://i-own-loki.tumblr.com/)


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